


Theoretical Principles

by sophiagratia



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/F, Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-31
Updated: 2011-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-15 06:43:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiagratia/pseuds/sophiagratia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's an engineer. She likes machines.</p><p>Written for the <a href="http://cosmic-llin.livejournal.com/223913.html">Trek Femslash Comment Ficathon</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Theoretical Principles

‘The orientation of the phase inducer is incorrect.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘The orientation of the phase inducer is incorrect. To obtain the result you desire, you must rotate it one hundred and eighty degrees.’

‘And may I ask how you know what result I desire?’

‘Some aspects of this device's practical applications may elude me, Lieutenant, but the theoretical principles of its design are perfectly clear.’

B’Elanna took a deep breath. Set down her hyperspanner. Drew a wrist across her brow. Took another deep breath. Carefully raised her eyes.

‘Seven?’

‘Yes, Lieutenant.’

‘What the hell are you doing in my quarters?’

‘I came to deliver the specifications for the astrometrics lab’s energy requirements. However, I now see that I can be of some assistance in this matter, as well.’

And damn it to hell if that wasn’t just what B’Elanna despised about her. Somewhere along the line, Seven of Nine had acquired a deft touch with tone. _Sardonic_ was her greatest achievement, a linguistic study in Borg perfection. And it drove B’Elanna bloody crazy.

‘I do not require your assistance, Seven. Thank you for the specs; leave them on the table.’ Seven, still standing by the door, shifted only to a slightly less stiff approximation of attention. A more sardonic approximation. Damn her.

‘If you hope to finish before your shift begins, Lieutenant – and I can only infer that you hope to finish before your shift begins’ – was that a smirk? – ‘then you certainly require my assistance.’

B’Elanna blushed. _Damn_ it, but she blushed.

Now what? Boot Seven from the room this instant – thus comfirming her own embarrassment? Or allow her to stay – thus not only admitting need for help, bad enough, but involving this mechanical mutt in a private project? B’Elanna Torres’ least favorite kind of dilemma: a choice between two shades of damaged pride.

‘Fine,’ she snapped. Seven nodded, crossed the room, and smiled. Seemed to smile. Half-smirked. Whatever. Damn her.

B’Elanna rotated the phase inducer. The object on the table clacked and whirred, hopped three centimetres to its right, fizzed gently, and died.

‘I believe this is the most... innovative purpose to which I have seen a phase inducer put, Lieutenant. A simpler design would be more efficient.’ Sitting next to B’Elanna on the couch, ignoring her eye-roll, she tilted her head at some undoubtedly calculated angle, examining the device’s internal structure. Her eyes focused and scanned – it crossed B’Elanna’s mind, against her will, that she wouldn’t mind that intent, if mechanical, attention turned on her. Seven, mercifully absorbed in her analysis, nodded once. ‘I see your problem.’

Seven took the device in one hand – B’Elanna winced – and reached up with the other to draw a micro-optic drill from her tightly twisted hair. So _that's_ how she did it. A blonde mess tumbled around Seven's shoulders, and from behind her glare, B’Elanna winced again – at quite a different frequency.

‘Observe, Lieutenant.’ Seven deftly touched the drill’s beam once to each joining of fiberoptic resonator to phase inducer. She reached across B’Elanna’s lap for the tritanium casing that sat next to her on the couch. Her hair fell across B’Elanna’s forearms, a quiet series of static shocks. Impassive, she slid the device into its long and gently molded shaft, and calmly clipped the casing closed.

B’Elanna swallowed hard. The sleek tritanium shaft against the sleek design of Seven’s hand. Mechanics, flesh and blood, mechanics. This elegant-lewd device; this woman’s hand; this half-mechanical woman’s hand.

Matter-of-fact, Seven handed it to her. ‘Enjoy your morning off, Lieutenant.’ Her deft touch for tone. The quick appraising glance, her sardonic but suggestive pitch.

The doors sighed shut behind her cool, efficient exit.

B’Elanna turned the toy in her hands, warming the tritanium.

She touched her lips to its softly molded head. Her breath came sharp as the fingers of one hand slowly worked her trousers open. She tapped one fingertip twice, lightly, on the base. It hummed. She sighed.

When the cold tritanium touched her aching clit, she keened and swore she was not thinking of the arch insistence of her colleague's sleek metallic fingertips.


End file.
